Repeating History
by Xmyheart.hope2die
Summary: Captured, tortured, and manipulated, the Doctor is tricked by a cruel hand to do what he deemed was impossible in the past: betray and -possibly - destroy his beloved human race. He had done it once before anyway. T for Torture and lots of whump!
1. Chapter 1

_As a small act of rebellion against doing homework on the last night before Thanksgiving break, I decided to write this 'fun' little story. I'm warning you know, I'm not entirely sure where this is going – or if it's actually even going _anywhere – _But it was fun to write and, hopefully, fun to read. So enjoy and leave me a comment!_

The Doctor burst through the doors, mindless of the many startled Roristats who jumped up from their computers and yelped at his sudden intrusion. Coils of smoke warfed through the door with him and the tips of his erratic hair were smoldering slightly, as was the hem of his grey track pants. He coughed viciously into his arm as he ran, trying to rip his lungs of the rancid stuff.

Behind him charged at least half a dozen men; large, burly men wearing fabric-armor and enormous guns slung across their bodies. They, too, were coughing up smoke, bits of hair and clothing singed as well, but they stayed hot in pursuit on the Doctor's heals.

"Stop him!" One managed to wheeze out as he drew his gun and fired, smoke-blinded, at a spot just over the Doctor's shoulder, hitting one of the stunned Roristats in the arm. She yelled out in pain before collapsing to the ground, right in the Doctor's path. At the last second he managed to jump, his bare feet just skimming over the fallen woman, but on the landing his left ankle rolled and he fell forward, the injured ankle suddenly refusing to hold his weight.

The men were nearly upon him. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his ankle, the Doctor forced himself forward, launching off with his right foot and hands. He stumbled a couple steps, his left ankle still working against him, before he reached one of the computer hubs and practically collapsed into it. His fingers danced frantically, desperately, over the keyboard, typing in codes impossibly fast, and then he pounded the 'enter' button, relief and unexplainable fear flooding into him all at the same time.

For Earth, he had been just in time. But for himself, he had been just a little too late.

Vicious hands grabbed his arms just as the deed was done, dragging him backwards and away from the computer. The Doctor kicked out, fighting for an instant, but he already knew the hands would not release him, no matter how hard he struggled.

With the smallest hint of a smile the Doctor heard the generic female voice announce "Systems offline" from the computer just as Ms. Cartham entered his line of vision, her curly black hair unperturbed against the smoke and excitement in the room. She walked up and stood over the Doctor, who was still hanging between the arms of the men on his throbbing ankle. Cartham glanced back at the smoke issuing from open doorway and then smiled humorlessly as she turned back to the Time Lord.

"Congratulations, Doctor." She said coolly. "You just saved the world."

And then a fist slammed into the side of the Doctor's head and he instantly blacked out.

* * *

><p>The Doctor jerked back to consciousness with an enormous gasp. He began to cough viciously, his mouth and throat still heavy with the taste of ash, and automatically tried to curl up into himself. This proved difficult as his hands were cuffed to the floor behind his back, pulling on his shoulders and causing them to ache. With a rush of pain, the Doctor was instantly reminded of each of his injuries.<p>

His left ankle felt tender and swollen, and it stuck out at an odd angle from his leg. His feet were both covered in blotches of red that burned and tingled slightly, disliking the rough metal grating they rubbed against, and his head where the fist had made contact throbbed painfully with each beat of his hearts. And of course, there were all the cuts, burns, bruises, and bumps he had acquired over the past few weeks, most of which, through they still hurt considerably, the Doctor paid little heed to.

From where he lay on the ground, the Doctor could hear the steady humming of a spaceship's machinery beneath him, and from the vibrations and clangs issuing from within, he automatically knew the make. He was on a year 5428 Megaclite J11; a cargo ship most often used for military equipment. And, from the feel of the ship's movements, he was far from Earth's orbit. Even that solar system.

With a groan, the Doctor opened his eyes. They felt dry, probably from the smoke, and it took a moment for them to clear completely. Once they did, the Doctor could see the bottom of a row of metal benches hanging suspended from the ceiling two feet off the grated floor, as well as a pair of rubber soled platform shoes and thin legs clad in black cargo pants.

The Doctor jumped back instinctively, his wrists chaffing against the cold metal cuffs that held him down. Ms. Cartham's familiar quiet laugh fell on his ears as he willed his hearts to slow their racing. "Good morning." She cooed devilishly from her seat on the bench.

"Is it?" The Doctor sniffed, trying to feign nonchalance that he clearly didn't have. "I don't know, smells more like late afternoon/early evening to me. But then again, we're in space, so who can really tell, eh?"

While he spoke as his hearts slowed to a pace where he didn't feel as if he were about to vomit from the piercing headache they were creating, the Doctor carefully used his shoulder and elbow to clumsily push himself up into a sitting position, his legs tucked beneath him. He refused to lie on the floor at her feet, despite the loud disagreement of his head against the change in the direction of blood flow.

Cartham smiled again. "You're funny." She stated as if she didn't really believe it herself. "Almost as funny as that little stunt you pulled yesterday back on Callanstine V."

She leaned forward against her knees, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. Her other hand, the Doctor noticed, held a small black object that looked slightly like a television remote. He eyed it nervously, knowing by the way the object was positioned that she wanted him to see it, and that did not give his gut a good feeling.

"How very brave of you." Ms. Cartham continued, her eyes bearing into his. "Saving your precious Earth with yet more dazzling antics, despite threat of pain and confinement."

"Yep, well, that's me, isn't it? Heart of a lion."

"Except you forget one thing, Doctor." Cartham said slowly. "We still have you."

Ms. Cartham stood, her rubber soled shoes making no noise against the metal grating. She twirled the black object casually in her hand. "The codes you put into the computer not only cancelled out the activation of the virus, but also locked the system to any further attempts to reactivate it. So, Doctor, you'll be giving me the other codes that will override those commands."

The Doctor tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a groan as his chest contracted with another outburst of coughing. "No I won't." He managed to force out between coughs. "I made the mistake of giving you the virus formula, but I'll be damned if I ever let you use it."

Ms. Cartham paused in front of him. "So you're answer is a 'no' then? Fine," She sat back down on the suspended bench. "I'm not entirely shocked to hear it, to be honest. You've been a stubborn pain in my ass the last couple weeks already, why change character now? So as it is…"

Then she held out the black object so he could see it properly and his hearts seemed to both freeze and begin to beat double pace at the same time in anticipation. Cartham pressed her finger to a button and white-blue sparks erupted between the two spears of the taser. Then she reached down and set the tip of it against the metal flooring.

The Doctor could practically feel the electric energy flow from the taser, into the metal grates, across the floor, and up the metal cuffs connecting him to the ground. The pain was instant and all-consuming. His body jerked involuntarily as the electricity coursed through him, the pain intensifying in his ankle and head. Distantly, he wondered if he was screaming.

Finally, the pain began to cease, and the strain in his throat (which now tasted like rusted metal) answered his question. His body fell limply forward, but the handcuffs caught his arms before he could fall, suspending him awkwardly at an angle with the floor. His ankle was now _screaming._

Through the ringing in his ears he heard Cartham walking towards him on her protective rubber shoes. Her fingers entwined in his hair and jerked his head up, so his fuzzy eyes were forced to fall on her.

"We have another two days before we reach Earth. By the time we get there, I _will_ have the override codes."

She dropped his head and pressed the taser to a metal pole that intersected with the floor, causing the lights in the cargo hold to flicker and the Doctor to scream again.


	2. Chapter 2

Four months earlier.

Grasa stared expressionlessly out over the docking port as the small ship began to align itself for landing. His gray arms were crossed over his body, weight situated on his left leg so as to alleviate the pain coming from the thin slash across his right shin. Multiple purple scars littered his bare arms and vanished beneath his rawhide combat vest, which held its own scars and suspiciously red stains. Suspicious because the Roristats bled purple.

The ship settled into the dock, the automatic airlock securing it to the loading platform and releasing a gust of recycled oxygen. From here, Grasa could not see the passengers disembark, and his impatient curiosity to know the outcome of the mission caused his sink to tingle with anticipation. They had not risked sending ahead a transmission with the results for fear of being overheard by that man's many loyal followers and debtors. Too much work had gone into obtaining him to forgive a slip-up like that. _She _would never allow it.

No longer able to ignore the itching, Grasa spun on his booted heals and marched down the generic-as-ever halls of the outpost station towards the docks. He felt a familiar bitter taste rise in his mouth as his hearts seized at the sight of the plain charcoal walls, black doors, and the thought of the blinding white rooms on the other side. It was all _too _Roristatian. Too recognizable. Too much like the home he and his men had lost.

The docking port was crowded with soldiers and technicians scurrying about, some disembarking while others hurried onto the ship carrying magnoclamps for transporting the haul. As Grasa walked passed, many of the soldiers stood at attention, showing their respect by placing their left hand on the back of their necks and their right hand on he elbow – the traditional Roristatian salute.

Grasa approached on of the soldiers who had a thin purple cloth tied around his bulging neck. "Captain."

"Sir."

"Report." Grasa ordered in his rough, grinding voice. To any man, they would have heard the colliding and grinding of rocks rather than an actual language, but the captain seemed to have understood him perfectly and responded with a similar tone of pulverized stones.

"Mission was a success, Sir. The men are unloading the cargo as we speak."

As if on cue, Grasa saw three figures appear under the illuminated arch of the ship's main doors. Two were distinctly Roristats; their thick, ogre-ish gray forms sharply visible against the bright backlight. Between them, held up by their bulky, muscular arms, was a _much_ slimmer, much for human form, but it was as limp as a recently dead corpse, and a dark brown blinder-bag had been secured around its head. The body's hands were bound in front by manacles connected by a chain of Roris iron – the most impenetrable material within five galaxies – as were its feet. Four more men followed them out, all with their weapons out, safeties off, and ready to fire at the slightest hint of movement from the unconscious body. Grasa thought this amount of security was – in the most appropriate translation from his native language – re-_fucking_-diculous, but she had instructed them not to underestimate the man beneath the blinder-bag.

The party of seven approached, and the men who could salute saluted their commander and their captain, while the two holding up the body simply stood at attention, refusing to lax in their jobs. Grasa nodded for them to be at ease then turned back to the captain. "And is the cargo damaged?" He asked.

The captain shrugged slightly. "Not much, sir."

Unconvinced due to the limpness of the body, Grasa stepped forward and ripped the blinder-bag off the man's head. The wild, unkempt shock of hair he was met with caked in dried blood, which had also painted the side of the man's face and his bizarrely shaped eyebrows. Grasa raised his own at the captain, who shrugged again and repeated, "I said not much."

Suppressing a growl – the Time Lord would be of no use if his brain had been smacked into mush – Grasa motioned to the two men holding up the body. "Take him to the cell we designated. The four of you –" Now he signaled to the armed men surrounding them. "Keep them company on the walk, then station two guards outside the door at all times. Alert me when he wakes."

The men who could salute saluted again, and there were a few murmurs of "Yes, Sir", and then the band of seven departed up the hallway, the Doctor's converse-d feet sliding alone behind them.

When the party reached the cell door – how they could tell which identical door led to which room must have been a clever Roristatian trick, for there were no numbers or further identification on any of the black doors – one of the armed guards keyed in the combination and the Doctor's body was thrown, unceremoniously, onto the floor of the blindingly white room within. One of them removed the blinder-bag from his head, but made no move to clean or address to the gash along his wild hairline. The cuffs binding his hands and feet, however, were left where they were.

As the men began to leave, many grumbling about lack of sleep and whether the cook would have prepared something that was actually edible for the returning soldiers, one paused by the Doctor's side, glaring down at the limp form as if it were the most disgusting creature in the universe. Then suddenly, the man pulled back his booted foot and landed a vicious kick on the Doctor's side, sending the unconscious body sprawling onto its back from the force. At the lack of response gained from the lifeless man, the soldier growled and went in for another.

"Armacost! Stand down." One of the other soldiers grabbed him by the shoulders, hauling him away from their prisoner.

Armacost was now sobbing, fighting against his comrades vise-like grip. "My mate." He howled. "My children. My family! _OUR _families!"

"He has coming for him what he deserves, Armacost. I promise you, your family will be avenged." He continued to drag the hysterical man out of the room, forcing down his own revulsion and desire to tear out the Doctor's hearts as well. They cleared the threshold into the gray corridor and the door was slammed behind them, cutting off their vision of the unconscious man and allowing him his last night ever of untainted – albeit unwilling – sleep.

Tomorrow, all Hell will reign down in that room for all the crimes and evil that man had brought upon them.

_This chapter was a bit dull, I know, but I needed it for a filler before the next chapter (which, believe me, will _not _be dull!) The next chap is already in the works, of course, because it's finals week and God forbid I actually study, so keep an eye out, it should probably be out soon. In the meantime, thanks for reading and please leave a review _


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